Six Degrees
by Batteries Sold Separately
Summary: Co-authored by prone2dementia and Talionyzero. Amidst anthrax threats and cult dealings, two worlds collide. Our favorite characters - major and minor - discover that they are separated by much less than six degrees.
1. Chapter 1

This is a collaborative effort between two authors_. __**prone2dementia **_wrote the first scene and _**Talionyzero **_wrote the second_._

_Talionyzero: _Basically, enjoy, but for those that are interested, we do accept anonymous reviews and they will be answered on our profile page. _  
_

_prone2dementia: _Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter or Alex Rider belongs to either prone2dementia or Talionyzero.

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_Six Degrees_

May 2nd was, indubitably, Harry Potter's least favorite day of the year. It was the date that spawned extravagant celebrations across the nation. It was the date that spurred sycophantic worship from fans around the globe. Owls poured in from sunrise to sunset; reporters stalked his every move. Memorial services requested his presence, charity benefits requested his donations, and ministry functions requested his endorsement. Everyone wanted something from him—time, money, attention, praises—and he despised the ceaseless demands.

Beyond the external struggles, however, he also battled internally.

May 2nd reminded him of all that he'd lost, and all that he had to lose. It reminded him that his friends could be harmed and his loved ones could be killed. It reminded him that, at any time, another Dark Lord could rise and grip the wizarding world in his cruel clutches.

Altogether, it was a depressing day for Harry and—upon waking up beneath nightmare-rumpled sheets—he desired nothing more than to stay at home and sulk. No matter how much he was fain to argue, though, Ginny Potter née Weasley disagreed with this course of action.

Standing at the foot of their bed with head tilted and limbs akimbo, she declared in her _don't-you-dare-argue-with-me-unless-you-want-to-sleep-on-the-sofa_ way, "Since it's a holiday and we don't have to work—"

"Tell me something I don't know, Captain Obvious."

"Gladly, _Lieutenant Sarcasm_," she responded blithely. "As I was saying, since we don't have to work, we should go visit Teddy. I've already floo'd Andromeda, and she's agreed to let us take him out on a picnic. So if you will get your lazy arse out of bed..."

Mumbling petulantly beneath his breath, Harry kicked off the bunched bed-coverings and swung his legs onto the hardwood floor. "Such crude language from such a young lady. What would your brothers think?"

She snorted and did not deign to comment. "I had breakfast while you were wallowing in self-pity, so you'll have to wait until the picnic for food. Get dressed and meet me downstairs."

"_Gin," _he whined.

But it was too late, for she had already disappeared out the door.

In the yellow-tiled bathroom, he brushed his teeth, shaved his face, and attempted to tame his hair. The last act was executed to no avail, but twenty-one years of habit required that he do it anyway. After several fruitless moments, he threw down Ginny's brush and returned to the bedroom, flattening his unruly locks over his scar with a frustrated hand. Muggle clothing—jeans and a shirt—were tugged from the closet and then pulled on hastily. Still in the midst of buttoning-down, he padded out of the room and down the stairs.

"Ginevra, _dearest_," he sang, "I'm ready."

"How many times have I told you not to call me that?!" On the first floor, just in front of the entrance hall, Ginny appeared in all her exasperated glory. She was attired in a white summer dress that swayed in time with her hips.

"About the same number of times that Ron's been told the Cannons will never win—but that hasn't stopped him from supporting them, has it?"

"Oh, shut up, you." She smacked his arm playfully, and then took the abused appendage in her own as she twisted on the spot.

There was an unpleasant sensation, akin to being shoved through a small opening.

"_Bloody—!"_ Ears popping and stomach churning, Harry squeezed his eyes together and waited for the Apparition to end. Upon reaching their destination, he pitched forward and nearly lost his balance. "You could've at least warned me!"

His wife shrugged innocently. "Toughen up a bit, Harry." She winked. "You _are _the Savior of the Wizarding World, after all."

With that, she started forward, and Harry allowed himself a proper study of his surroundings. They were walking over a wooded clearing toward a cottage made of sun-bleached wood. Beneath them was a bed of lush grass, daubed with clumps of pastel flowers; above them was an expanse of eternal sky, dashed with wisps of pearly clouds. As they headed toward the cottage, a small figure sprang out of the back door and barreled forward, directly at them.

"_Harry! Gin!_" cried a little boy's voice, pitched high with excitement. "You're here!"

"Hello, Teddy," laughed the woman, observing fondly as her spouse bent to one knee, arms wide open to receive the boy in a warm embrace.

"Hi," replied the four-year-old, grinning toothily at her from over Harry's shoulder. "'Dromeda's inside, makin' the food."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go find her!" said Harry.

"By that, you mean _let's go find the food_, don't you?"

Smiling and pretending not to hear, Harry carried his god-son through the small back-garden and inside. Ginny trailed just a few paces behind.

The door opened into the sitting room, and the contrast between the cottage and the outdoors was immediate. Although sunlight slanted in through large, picture windows, it carried only a fraction of the heat. Across the short stretch of hallway, Andromeda Tonks was busying herself with lunch.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potter, come here and have a taste of this." With neither a glance upwards nor a pause in her cooking, Andromeda beckoned toward them.

Harry set Teddy onto his feet, and then trudged with Ginny into the kitchen, from where all sorts of pungent aromas were emerging. There was the scent of spices, and warm food, and something distinctly like _home_.

When a spoonful of creamy soup was thrust into Harry's face, the man sipped it eagerly, as if he were sipping a fine wine. "It's delicious, as always."

Beside him, Ginny murmured her agreement. "This is some of the best soup I've ever had."

"Better not let Molly hear you say that," warned Harry, smirking.

"Mum's not here now, is she?" Defiance was displayed in the stubborn line of Ginny's shoulders. Turning back to the older woman, she opined, "Honestly, Andromeda, I've never had anything like this."

A spreading blush evidenced Andromeda's pride. "Thank you, dear. Now—" She ladled several helpings of the soup into a flask charmed to retain warmth. "Take these and Teddy into the garden and have yourselves a nice picnic."

Grasping the flask and basket that Andromeda pushed into his hands, Harry queried, "You won't be joining us?"

"Goodness, no, Teddy has had way too much of me lately." She patted the young couple affectionately and sent them on their way.

Back outside, Ginny assumed the task of selecting a foliage-shaded patch of grass to set down the materials. When she was satisfied with a particular lot beneath a sweeping willow tree, Harry conjured a blanket, unfolded it with flourish, and then arranged it onto the ground.

"Paisley?" the woman asked, gesturing at the pattern on the blanket. "Couldn't you have chosen something more traditional like...checkers?"

Sheepishly, Harry shrugged.

"Well," Ginny continued, exhaling resignedly, "I suppose your appalling sense extends beyond fashion."

"That's why you love me." Harry pecked her on the cheek.

Skipping excitedly around their legs, Teddy inquired, "Can we eat now?"

The man and woman shared a look, then started laughing.

Together, they said, "Yes, Teddy."

The next half hour was filled with the melody of wind through leaves, birds through trees, happy laughs, and relaxed conversations. Harry and Ginny took turns undoing the messes that Teddy made, patiently wiping his hands and cleaning his face at intervals. In the presence of his wife and god-son, Harry felt the stress of real life dissolve—

Until a silver lynx darted out of the trees and into their party.

Not knowing what it was, Teddy reached out a curious hand, only to find that he couldn't pet the silver creature.

"Teddy." Ginny's voice was calm but urgent. "Don't touch that."

"What is it?" Teddy asked inquisitively.

"Kingsley's Patronus," Harry answered absently, even though Teddy had no way of knowing what a Patronus was.

Despite Ginny's disapproving glare, the man motioned for the lynx to follow him several paces away, out of the hearing range of the other two.

There, Harry rounded on the graceful creature. "What is it, Kingsley? What's wrong?"

In the Minister's voice, the lynx said, "We need you to come in _immediately, _Harry."

"Why?" Harry could detect notes of desperation in Kingsley's tone.

"We will explain more when you arrive at Ministry." A brief pause ensued. Sensing that Harry was not going anywhere without some more information, Kingsley emphasized what little he could at the moment. "Just know that this is a matter concerning wizards and muggles alike."

-HP AR-

"No. No, no, no, no, and no," Alex insisted as he refused to take the seat that was offered to him. He had just been ushered into Blunt's office for what felt like the millionth time in his life, and he was determined not to walk out of that office with a mission.

Blunt was well known for keeping an emotionless façade on him at all times. He was often described as having the emotional range of a snake by the agents that worked under him—the last time he had actually been seen smiling at work was years ago. And yet, at that moment, the exasperated look he shared with Mrs. Jones could only have been described as human.

"Mr. Rider, please sit down."

For a moment, Alex considered simply walking out on Blunt. But, in the long run, he doubted it would do any good, and he wasn't the sort to run from a fight. He'd faced down worse than Blunt before; he could do it again. So he sat down, albeit with a deep scowl.

Blunt sighed. Alex didn't want to be here, which was understandable. What he didn't know, however, was that the head of MI6 was just as reluctant to have him. And, with the new prime minister breathing down Blunt's throat about the immorality and illegality of using kids instead of trained agents, Blunt was lucky that he hadn't been suspended. This situation was desperate, though, and the immoral means justified the moral ends.

Ms. Jones glanced at Blunt, uncertain of how to proceed. Blunt sighed mentally. He had decided that it would be best to dive in immediately. Showing the dire results of the situation could be the path to convincing the boy to agree to work with them. After all, Alex was just like his uncle in that he couldn't allow others to suffer what he could prevent—and that was exactly why Blunt felt that Alex could be useful now.

"Alex, this is a matter of utmost importance—not only to the safety of our country, but also to the state of our world," Blunt began. He had already adapted a more detached voice for the briefing. Not that it showed much because he really was very much of a snake. Emotionally, that is.

But Alex wasn't going to acquiesce to Blunt's manipulations without protest. "Where've I heard that line before, Blunt? It's always for the 'safety of our world,' isn't it? I'm not working for you, no matter what you threaten me with. Jack already has her permanent visa, so you can't deport her. What else can you try?" Catching sight of Blunt's parted lips, he shook his head to halt the man. "And, please, don't get creative on my account. I know that Prime Minister Meyers won't agree with you; Ms. Jones has already told me that he refused to let you use me. So what the hell more do you want?"

At the end of his assertion, Alex deflated back into his seat. He hadn't meant to come off that strong, but he was firm in his conviction: He was not going to allow himself to be pushed around anymore.

Blunt raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Jones blushed; Alex wasn't supposed to know that the prime minister had told Blunt to cease and desist when it came to using the boy as a weapon. Neither was unprepared for the outburst, but it always annoyed them that Alex could act so childishly.

_Well_, Ms. Jones considered, _he was technically still a child_.

"While that may be the case, Alex, I have no other options except to ask you for help." When Alex opened his mouth to object, Blunt held up a hand, successfully quieting the boy. "If this were not a last, desperate attempt to salvage a mission, I would not be asking you. Just listen to me. I promise that I won't make you accept anything. You will get a choice on whether or not to accept."

Alex blinked. That was not what he had been expecting. He had come in waiting for Blunt to order him through use of blackmail. Instead, he got…_this._ Blunt didn't seem threatening and imposing. Rather, he simply appeared to be _old._

But it didn't matter. Alex shook his head, roughly reminding himself not to get pulled in. This was how they had coerced him into agreeing in the past, and he wasn't going to go through that again. They had professionals for their dirty work.

"No," he said in a strong voice that bared disagreement. "I'm not your last chance; I'm a kid that is still having trouble with school—having trouble because of the times I've already looked after the safety of the world for you."

Blunt wasn't ready to give in just yet. He tried again, this time with a different approach. "You know, Alex, it has come to my attention that you have not been paid for your services to your country."

"Somehow, Blunt, I doubt that you just recently noticed this. Actually, I believe your exact words were along the lines that, because I don't officially worked for you, it would look shady if MI6 deposited any amount of money in my bank account."

"That is easily remedied," the grey man said in his monotone. "Sit here; listen to a rundown of the situation." Blunt made sure he avoided saying 'briefing'. "After you have heard the entire speech, you will be free to accept or reject our offer, with no negative consequences. When you make your decision, you can discuss finances with Mrs. Jones."

"Alright," he reluctantly agreed after several moments of silence, punctured only by the silver crinkling of Ms. Jones unwrapping another peppermint. "But I'm only going to hear you out, that's all!"

Blunt nodded, satisfied. "If you could start us off, Ms. Jones," he asked.

Ms. Jones stepped forward from her spot beside Blunt's chair. "As previously mentioned, Alex, you are our last attempt. We have sent three other agents in to investigate already, and all have been killed in the line of duty. I won't deceive you; this is a dangerous mission. Yet the stakes of this mission going wrong are too heavy to do nothing."

There was a brief pause as Tulip Jones allowed that information to sink in.

Growing tired of sitting still, beneath the two steady gazes, Alex nodded. "Go on."

"For several months we have had our eye on a terrorist cell named Uppryckandet, a name that literally translates to The Rapture. They are a mostly European cult, who bases their beliefs off the bible. They believe people on Earth must strive to be perfect Christians, so that—in the afterlife—they may enter heaven and join God. The group believes prayer for forgiveness and living according to the Old Testament is the only way to achieve a higher state of being. Those who do not comply should be punished for spreading filthiness to the rest of the world."

Alex raised an eyebrow. How was this any different than the vast majority of religious people? The cult sounded strikingly similar to a church where, every Sunday, groups gathered to go on about the 'horrible state of the world'. Well, barring the fact that churches usually didn't tell their members to 'punish' those that didn't agree with them.

Blunt turned the large computer monitor that was on his desk to face Alex. Both Ms. Jones and Alex sat and watched as Blunt typed a set of commands into the computer and, a moment later, Windows Media Player popped up. Alex resisted a smirk. Apparently, MI6 was on the PC side of Mac vs. PC. Who would have guessed?

The footage was grainy and old. It seemed to be some sort of demonstration. Looking as though they had never shaved in their lives, several old men were holding signs above their scraggly heads as they stood in front of a government building. The signs were cardboard and drawn in black sharpie. The slogans were the standard variety for religious extremists; 'Fear God!', 'Homosexuality is a sin', 'Accept God as your Savior now', and "Those that sin will burn'. There were about twenty men in total, all with European looks, long beards, homemade clothes, and an excess of pent up rage. One man kept trying to force pamphlets onto annoyed onlookers and pedestrians, but that was the closest that they seemed to get to the crowd.

For roughly thirty seconds, nothing else happened. Then, one of the men put down his sign and the rest quieted instantly. A moment later, the man started to scream above the rest of the crowd's noise.

"YOU CANNOT LIVE IN SIN AND EXPECT TO BE WELCOMED BY GOD IN HEAVEN! THOSE WHO DO NOT ACCEPT OUR GOD AS THE FATHER AND HIS SON AS THE SON MUST BE CONVERTED IF THEY HOPE TO EVER GAIN ACCESS TO HEAVEN! OUR GOD IS THE ONE TRUE GOD AND MUST BE ACKNOWLEDGED AS SUCH. ALL OTHER RELIGIONS MUST BE EXTERMINATED! ONLY WITH US CAN YOU FIND THE ANSWERS TO SUCH QUESTIONS AS 'WHAT IS LIFE?,' 'AM I ALONE?," AND 'WHY AM I HERE?'"

There was more, but Alex started to tune out after that. The rest was all exactly what a person would imagine a brain-damaged extremist to say, and needless to say, no one took a pamphlet.

"That is the leader of the group, David Wright. This was taken as the group was just starting out, before they became classified as a terrorist cell, thirteen years ago in Sweden."

Blunt minimized the screen and clicked on another. The next clip was slightly less grainy. It was short; a man recognizable as David Wright threw a can into the window of the church. A moment later there was an explosion from within the church. All of the windows shattered, but that was the only structural damage. Wright ran away, disappearing moments before an alarm started to ring.

"That was the first recognized act of vandalism that Uppryckandet took part in. In the following two years, Wright and his followers were arrested four times. None of their actions resulted in fatalities. At worst, they were regarded as a nuisance by the local police. And then a year later, the cult took part in this."

Another clip popped up. This one was panned in to show the entrance of a mosque. The door consisted of an archway and, inside the mosque, about twenty men were praying in traditional Islamic garbs. For about a minute, Alex stared at the screen, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

"What are we staring at this clip for?" he started to ask, but Blunt interrupted him by raising a finger.

"Wait."

A moment later, Alex saw what they had been waiting for. An explosion, starting at the top of mosque, sent the entire structure crumbling down. It was a true picture of terrorism; shouts of terror and a clamor for the doorway arch ensued. At least ten of the men in the mosque did not make it out.

"So they took responsibility?" Alex asked, knowing without asking but doing so anyway.

"Yes," Ms. Jones said. "From that point on the cult was officially listed as a terrorist group."

"For the past ten years the cell has been relatively dormant, only appearing on the news twice; once for planting a bomb in the car of a preacher that had been accused of molesting a child, and again for the decidedly larger scale bombing of what they claimed was an empty church. Contrary to the group's belief, the church was not empty and the explosion that ensued killed two janitors. The first bomb detonated when the preacher's adolescent daughter used her dad's car to go and meet her date. She died in the hospital hours after the car bomb exploded."

"So why the sudden interest in them?" Alex asked warily, certain that he didn't want to know.

Tulip finished sucking on her current peppermint and popped another into her mouth. The smell was nauseating, and both Blunt and Alex gagged as a new wave of mint breath hit them. Blunt did so covertly, but the same could not be said of Alex.

"Their numbers have increased dramatically this year. Several months ago, we heard the first rumors of their involvement with Anthrax transactions. A couple weeks later, we received information about their distribution of the strain, and—only days later—we were able to confirm that they, indeed, possessed Anthrax." She paused. "Unfortunately, due to their relatively low amount of terroristic acts, we underestimated their abilities. When we sent in our agent, he was flushed out almost immediately. Since the agent's death, we've only been able to discover two new pieces of information: the site of their headquarters and the location of the virus."

For a moment, at the mention of the now deceased Agent Grownley, Ms. Jones voice seemed to go up in pitch. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. Blunt noticed and took over.

"Hypocritically, a brother is storing the virus in Switzerland. We would not be so urgent to get in there, except we have received fresh information that leads us to believe the new strain of Anthrax may be released soon. And since the places Uppryckandet has targeted so far have been on European soil, we are understandably concerned."

"So this group believes that it's wrong to break the rules in the New Testament and yet they have their headquarters in a brothel? How very Christian of them," Alex said.

Blunt coughed. "Yes, well. As Ms. Jones was saying, we sent three agents in, and our first was killed immediately. This was about the same story for the other two agents. Now, what can you conclude from that?"

"That you need to train your agents better," Alex shot out without hesitation. He paused for a moment, before giving a weary sigh and shaking his head. "It's almost sad if you think about it. I know that not everyone can be expected to have the same success and survival rate as a fourteen-year-old boy, but three of your agents were killed immediately? Three highly trained agents killed, and you're relying on a kid. Desperation in play, that."

A moment of silence greeted Alex's words. Blunt coughed again and continued, "Be that as it may, your age and experience are the reason we want you. The Swiss authorities refuse to both seize the brothel and cooperate with us, so we are forced to find the strain on our own. So far, our men have been picked out because as clients and workers. They were carefully monitored, but you would have a different role. As a child, you would not be working at the brothel, obviously, or come in as a client, but rather be posing as the son of a prostitute. This would enable you to look around without the same level of scrutiny."

Alex couldn't believe he was even thinking about it, but he was. Blunt made a good point, and he couldn't—with a good conscience—allow an extremist cult to decide whether or not they should release a plague. Sighing, he asked the question that needed to be asked, "So, hypothetically, _and hypothetically only_, assuming that I agree to this mission, find the Anthrax strain, and get it seized by the Swiss authorities; what would my cover be?"

Blunt did not smile. That would go against his personal hatred of human emotion. But, if possible, his lip turned up, just a tiny bit. This was going better than he had expected.


	2. Chapter 2

_Talionyzero: _Don't listen to prone2dementia; she did wonderfully in her own scene no matter the length, and she made my scene twice as good as it was originally. We don't all have the same amount of free time; frankly I'm amazed with our schedules and own writing that this chapter didn't take much longer._ Now read on and enjoy..._

_prone2dementia: _Blame me for the shortness of this chapter. My scene (the first one) was only two pages and Tyz's (bless her) was five. Also, blame me for typos. I had the job of editing (in which I took too much liberty and imposed myself all over Tyz's writing), but I was fatigued and probably didn't catch them all. So. If you see mistakes, tell me! Otherwise, enjoy the chapter. :)

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_Chapter Two_

Apparitions were never pleasant experiences for Harry. International ones were even less so. As soon as the squeezing, tumbling, _turning _sensations broke, his green eyes snapped open to survey the surroundings, just as his calloused hands snapped out to seek purchase against cool brick.

He was in an alleyway, leaning heavily on the outer wall of a charming, little pub. At his side, the steep incline of burnt-sienna brick blocked out a good portion of the night sky, and somewhere near him, the scent of garbage made itself known. With equal speed, the absence of his partner also made itself known, and Harry glanced to and fro, searching for the familiar presence of a certain redhead.

"Ron?" he whispered, his breath fogging in the chilled evening air.

No reply.

Worriedly, he called again, "_Ron?"_

As if in answer, there was a resounding _pop!_

"Ron!"

Said Auror spun around, his movements almost like those of a drunken dance. "Sorry, mate." Uncomfortable fingers tugged at a rumpled shirt, evidencing how unaccustomed he was to muggle clothing. "Landed a few streets over by accident."

"Not a problem." Harry meant it, for he was foreign to Geneva too. "We should get going."

"Yes, the faster we can find the maniac, the faster we can get out of here."

Both men felt the pressure of their not-very-legal status. After all, Switzerland had not wanted interference in her affairs, and thusly condemned the agents of other countries. But England was desperate to rescind her treacherous son. Therefore, Minister Shacklebolt had gathered Ron and Harry in secret, informing them of their task.

It was supposed to be simple: capture and arrest.

Yet the simplest tasks often presented the most obstacles.

For one, the pair did not know the definite location of their target, Canton Brutus. Of course, they were aware that he would be in the brothel, but _where in the brothel _was the question. For another, they knew almost nothing about Brutus's background. He was clever and he was dangerous, but how much of a threat would he pose? What tactics would they need to use against him?

Trial and error appeared to be their best option, and plans based on chance never turned out right.

With that reality overshadowing them, they walked without talking, not in the mood to converse. Their silence was balanced, however, by the chatter and traffic that surrounded them. Although the streets were not packed, people constantly streamed back and forth, in the midst of their own business. No one paid any attention to the two men, strolling down the pavement with their heads down. They were just faces in a crowd.

Nearer to their destination, the masses thinned, and the voices were replaced by a loquacious wind.

"Rather cold for May, don't you think?" Ron's ears were bitten raw by the breeze.

Harry merely shrugged, running his eyes over the brothel that loomed just one block away. If he had not recognized the building's purpose, it would have looked rather attractive—somewhat like an old mansion spliced with a modern club. However, he was well versed in its reason for existence: prostitution. He was also well versed in his reason for being here: work.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's use a _Notice-Me-Not_ and then see if we can find a back entrance."

That plan necessitated a quick spell, followed by a journey through a second alleyway. Once more, Harry was assaulted by odors and shadows, and his nose wrinkled in disgust as he picked his way over damp stone. Beside him, Ron kept a steady tempo, all the while pulling at his clothes.

Two left turns and a stretch of straighter passage led them to their intended destination, a metal door off the side of the brothel. Bounding up two precipitous steps before it, Harry fiddled with the handle, only to find it locked.

"Alohomora?" suggested Ron.

Hesitant, Harry bit his lip and then pulled his wand out to cast, "_Alohomora_."

To both their surprise, the door opened with a soft _click_.

Harry muttered, "What type of wizard locks his door the _muggle_ way?"

"As long as it helps us, I won't ask questions." Ginger locks fell across Ron's blue eyes as he shook his head bemusedly.

Still not satisfied but willing to stow his inquiry for later, Harry pressed gentle hands against cool metal, and the door swung open with ease.

Within, there was a dark corridor, illuminated only by dim torches. The flames resided in brackets, spaced regularly along the wall, and between them, shadows lorded over the cold expanse.

"Just a tad eerie, huh?"

Harry nodded his agreement, straining to hear sounds beyond the crackling fires, his quiet breathing, and Ron's question.

His effort was to no avail. "I wonder where the people are."

"Probably farther in."

They continued down the hall, and Harry found himself unnerved by the lack of security, both magical and muggle. Using a facile charm to muffle his voice, he asked, "Do you think we should start with reconnaissance, or dive right in?"

Ron snorted. "We're Gryffindors. Of course we'll dive right in."

"If you say so."

-AR HP-

"Jonah, are you fine with me leaving you alone?" Agent Malone asked, careful to use the name Jonah instead of Alex, in case the room was bugged.

"I'm not five, Mum." Alex turned to look at the woman pretending to be both his mother and, unfortunately for her, a hooker. For Alex, that meant people who held a grudge against him at his new school had some basis to their insults. _Oh, happy day._

"Are you sure about that, honey? Because I'm pretty sure that someone older than five can wash their own clothes."

Alex rolled his eyes. At times, it seemed that Agent Malone was too good at her job, or that she should have been an improv actress. She certainly had the looks—perhaps that was why she was chosen to play a high-class hooker?

There was a comfortable pause as the agent finished adjusting her makeup in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall juxtaposed to the TV. The tiny apartment was only about as big as a medium hotel suite; the people that owned the 'worker quarters' apparently didn't consider hookers, high class though they might be, worthy enough of a bigger apartment. Not that any of the higher paid employees stayed in the worker complex; they were only allowed for the ones with several young children and a couple short on money.

"So, honey, while I'm out making a living to better _your _future—" A classic Mom guilt trip, if Tom was to be believed, "—why don't you go meet the other kids." It wasn't a question but an order—another Mom thing, of course.

"But all of the other kids around are babies," Alex grumbled. Translation: He was going to do as was advised and go check out the higher-up's offices around the back of the brothel. He was somewhat sleepy after a day around the new school, meeting all of the new kids and taking tests in each class to assess his level of schooling; but if he could get this over with, at least he would get back to his real life sooner. At least, Malone was good for one other thing besides being a great spy: she didn't underestimate him like _certain_ predecessors did.

"Not all of them, Jon. Now, no more complaints from you or I won't leave you any money for takeout."

Like the lazy teenager that he was supposed to be playing, Alex huffed and fell backwards onto the old couch. The springs croaked upon impact, but neither of the agents paid it any mind—the couch was at least free of lice.

"Doesn't matter. I'm already used to not eating, from all the days that you _try _to cook dinner. One more night without food won't make a difference."

"Fine," Malone said shortly. She approached him and, using his navy blue t-shirt to her advantage, grasped the sleeves of the shirt to drag him up. Swallowing him in a hug, she melodramatically whispered, "Take care, hon. I know this is all a bit sudden, but you'll adapt. We all have hardships in life, and this is just one more bump on the road."

Inconspicuously, she shoved a piece of paper down the sleeve of his shirt as he pushed her away.

"Shut up! You don't know anything about how hard it is for me to leave all my friends. Just because you decided to be a hooker instead of a fast food restaurant worker, doesn't mean that I'm going to make it easy for you!"

Malone nodded sorrowfully and turned to the door. On her way out, she paused and placed a hand on the chipped wood doorway to steady herself.

"I'm sorry, baby," she said, "but this really is for the best."

Snorting derisively for show, the young spy turned and headed toward the bathroom. Once inside, he smoothly retrieved the piece of paper from his sleeve.

_Smither's device has a map, on which I placed homing mechanisms. They indicate the suspicious rooms. Using the game that Smithers gave you, go to these rooms, plant the bugs, and search them. I'd wager that you have from 7 to 11 to do this task carefully. Don't get caught._

Alex ripped the paper into a multitude of tiny pieces and then threw them away, watching them flutter into the toilet before flushing. As he did so, he decided that, _yes, _Agent Malone was a thousand times better than Troy or Carter because she treated him like an equal. He had met Malone a mere six hours before they had to act as mother and son, and during that time, she had neglected to mention whether or not she had accessed his file. Yet he suspected that she had.

He shook away the thoughts and focused on his task. _Right. So, about three hours if he wanted to be safe._

Sighing, Alex headed for his bedroom closet. A few minutes later, he emerged with a black ski hat pulled low over his face, unconsciously fixing his flattened hair. Idly, he flicked through the song list of the iPhone Smithers had given him, special edition, as expected. Not that an ordinary person could gather that; all of the songs and games were completely legitimate, and at first glance, there were no special features. However, if a person were to rate three certain songs one star, the special features would activate. The certain artist of the certain songs reminded Alex, yet again, of Smither's particular brand of humor.

_Poker Face, wasn't it?_ he thought absently.

Once outside, he jogged down five steps of stairs to the base of the stairs and then finally clicked the 'one star' rating. Suddenly, the iPhone converted to a black GPS screen with five green dots blinking upon it. They were all close by, mostly coming from the nearby office building directly behind the brothel. Keeping an eye out for the women's armed guards and for the few high-class men in charge, he proceeded to the nearest office entrance.

The building wasn't locked well. Very little needed to be guarded, and the things that did were mostly financial records and health papers to ensure none of the employers had any transmittable diseases.

But he wouldn't need to bug those rooms, for the documents were not what Alex had to track. No, the rooms that needed bugging were the rooms that served no obvious intention, therefore making them easier to be used for a cult's occasional meeting. If they were like any of the other fanatics that Alex had met, they'd probably be using it to make plans about terrorizing small African towns.

The first room, indicated by his device's green blinker, was mostly empty and easily accessible. He stole through the shadows, and placed a bug behind one metal cabinet before proceeding to the next room. It was larger, with chairs drawn up to a table and a computer out. _Was there a meeting prepared? _

As soon as the thought passed through Alex's mind, he heard feet pounding outside the door. He froze.

_Nothing good could come of this._

A split second later, Alex was diving for a desk, pulling a chair after him in a feeble attempt to hide himself. Just seconds later, the door opened.

Voices drifted in, preceding the patter of feet. Breathing as quietly as possible, Alex listened to the ongoing conversation, spoken harshly in a language that he couldn't comprehend. Then, turning his gaze to the carpet, he spied three pairs of feet. Two were clad in brown Oxfam's and the other wore blackened slippers, surrounded by a lack of soft material.

Upon seeing them, he tried to bunch up into a ball without making a sound. _What was going on?_

Sweat beaded upon Alex's brow as he waited. And waited.

Possessed by déjà vu in the presence of the scheming madmen, Alex tried to stay silent. It felt like hours were flying by as they conducted a heated business discussion, but was in more likelihood half an hour.

And then, there was a shriek, foreign in words yet English in syllables. No ulterior motive seemed to have prompted it:

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

A body dropped awkwardly, accompanied by a loud _thump_.

Alex stopped breathing altogether. _Why couldn't I have had _one_ case without death? _he thought desperately.

Above him, he could hear a torrent of pleading; the second man had dropped to his knees and was begging in the alien tongue for—for mercy, forgiveness, a second chance.

Blinding white sparks flashed through the air.

The pleading man screamed, and helplessly curious, Alex craned his head just a bit to see what was going on. Fortunately for him, a cloaked man stepped into his limited vision, gripping the source of the flashes. It was a...a stick of wood?

More frantic this time, the man's appeals seemed to reflect the knowledge that he wouldn't have much longer. As he turned on his knees to face the cloaked man, Alex scrambled back into his corner, praying frantically that he wasn't caught.

The cloaked man spoke firmly, for exactly three minutes; Alex counted the seconds individually.

Apparently, mercy was granted, for the other stood up amidst a flurry of thanks. Together, the two left the room.

Shakily, Alex climbed out from under the desk and chair. Across the floor, a body laid spread-eagle. Although his face was contorted by surprise, Alex recognized him as a perfect match for one of the Cult members. Swallowing heavily, he secured one of Smithers bugs behind the desk and then scurried out of the room.

A few minute later found the next two rooms secured. Eyes flickering back and forth, he continued to inch forward, even though he wanted nothing more than to run away, back to Agent Malone.

But he wouldn't.

Something was being hidden in this place, something worthy of murder, and Alex would find out what it was.

_Which meant that he needed to bug all of the rooms, and quickly at that._

"Mreoaw…"

He jumped, turning around as he did, but immediately relaxed. The sound had come from a mere cat, black as night with golden yellow eyes to suit. How it had gotten in, Alex had no idea, but as long it stayed quiet, he didn't care.

"Shh, come on, stay quiet kitty," Alex whispered. He didn't have a lot of experience with cats, and was simply parroting what he had seen on TV. It was working, though, and that was all that mattered. Content that the cat would stay silent, he turned back around to inch forward some more.

_Pop!_

Alex whipped around, his back pressed against the wall. _What...? It was impossible!_

A man now stood where the cat had been moments before. He was garbed in clothing similar to a hijab or a Halloween wizard cloak.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Alex gulped, trying the classic, "Me no Eenglesh?"

"Please don't try that on me. How did you get in here?"

"...I – I'm just looking for a restroom."

"I don't think that is the case," said the man, calling out to a security guard that must have arrived while Alex was distracted. The guard carried a gun, and Alex realized that it was the first weapon he had seen here.

Before he could wonder about it, a jab of pain in his head made him double over. It felt like someone was twisting the contents of his brain with a scalpel.

"Hands up," the cloaked man ordered gruffly, and Alex did so, standing up slowly.

The guard was behind him now, shoving the gun at the back of his skull. "Let's go into the other room to work this out, deal?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Alex—being Alex—couldn't resist answering.

"No deal, actually. I think I still have a chance at finding the million dollar case."

A laugh. "Very good, but not quite good enough."

Leading the procession back into the murder-tainted room, the robed man raised a piece of wood.

"I gather that you are a muggle, which means all I really need do is change your memory," the man mused. "But after going through your mind, I don't think that will help. Goodbye, Alex Rider. You had a good run while it lasted, though."

Alex's light brown eyes widened immensely, and he tried to back away but was hampered by the gun at his head. Frantically, he shoved his arms back, trying to elbow the guy who held him in place

It didn't work.

The man holding him was muscular, trained. Alex's second grade Dan wasn't going to help him here.

Because everything had changed.

An hour ago, he would have scoffed if someone said he would be frightened by the sight of a grown man in sapphire robes, pointing an eleven-inch maple stick. But that was an hour ago. A lifetime ago, in some ways.

What Alex felt was not the normal shock that came with a mission, that came with seeing a sadistic madman, casually plotting the deaths of thousands of people. No, this was worse. This was the shock that came with seeing the _impossible._

Almost pityingly, the robed man regarded Alex. The boy's demise would not matter in the long run; if anything, it would probably be a quicker, painless death for him.

"_Avada Keda—"_


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

"Ma'am, you can't come in here!" the guard bellowed, his voice panicked. He was standing guard in a secure jail facility, and somehow, incredibly, a pale woman in her early twenties had appeared before him.

_Why, why had he lent his firearm to Jacobs?_ he thought despairingly.

With a heavy heart that was growing steadily heavier from the knowledge that his superiors would demote, if not fire, him for being unprepared, he pushed a button on his talkie. Its purpose was to signal a break in.

Her pale orb-shaped eyes swiveled slowly toward him, an expression of ethereal surprise alighting in them.

"But you have a goolasim wandering around," she said, her voice mirroring the surprise evident on her face. "If it catches you, it will scramble the signals in your brain. You don't want that!"

The man blinked rapidly. _The girl was loony! And how had she gotten into this secure facility?_

"Ma'am, we have already taken care of the, um, goolips—"

"Goolasims, you mean?" the girl inquired. She did not seem suspicious of the man, merely curious.

"Yes, that. Now, if you don't mind, allow me to escort you out of this area. It is private property belonging to the British government." The guard stepped forward, offering hiss hand to the other.

"Are you positive?" the girl asked. Absentmindedly, she tucked a strand of her silver manebehind one ear. "I could check for you, if you would like." The pale silver eyes wandered dreamily to the door behind them. "In there," she pointed, "I believe the goolasim is in there."

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Again, this is private property, and currently, you are trespassing."

The young women did not seem to realize what he was saying, or indeed even hear him. Her eyes were fixed distractedly on the metal door.

The guard took a deep breath, knowing that he needed a new strategy. "Lady, it's clear to me that you intended no harm, but if you don't leave now, we'll have a hard time convincing the higher ups of that." Still faced with an apathetic, ADD-ridden young woman, the man tried again. "Look, you could be prosecuted and sent to life in prison for this. Not a nice prison, either. It would be a secret type of prison with no regulations to protect you."

The woman's head swiveled to face the guard again.

"Secret prison?" she questioned. "That doesn't sound very civilized. What are you hiding?"

Her eyes unfocused and her attention became directed at the door. Almost out of thin air, it seemed, a thin wooden stick about a foot long appeared in the girl's hand.

"Viviseaous Cleminor," she sang lightly under her breath.

The man shook his head in defeat. This woman was very clearly insane—and why hadn't the backup arrived yet?

"What have you done to that man?" the other asked suddenly, alarm puncturing her perpetually dreamy state.

The guard followed her gaze.

And froze.

Behind him, the metal door had vanished. Every detail of the room within was revealed, but the only object of interest was a pale man stretched out on a bed, hooked to several IV's. He was in a comatose state, but despite that, his hands and feet were both fastened by metal cuffs.

In tendrils, sweat began to roll down the guard's back.

He was normally a very stoic man, but this – this _magic_?...

Luna watched with concern as the man collapsed. Quickly, she cast a spell in his direction to slow the descent and soften the fall. She rather liked the man; he hadn't attempted to propel little metal pieces in her direction like the others had.

Nevertheless, some actions were necessary: erasing his memory took seconds; opening the glass door, located behind the metal one, took slightly less. Then, Luna skipped into the room, her footfalls as light as a mouse. With every step, the unconscious prisoner's features became more pronounced. He had close-cropped fair hair, a pencil thin scar across his neck, and chiseled cheeks. From the waist up, his chest and arms were bare, but the smooth, pale skin of his chest was marred by several long white scars and, most particularly, by an ugly red bullet wound.

Luna blinked once, and then again. "Asalandre Dermos."

The reaction was immediate. As he began to regain consciousness, the man's previously consistent breathing changed to ragged gasping. The bullet wound had completely disappeared, as well as every other laceration on the visible skin.

Luna tilted her head to the side again, a peculiar habit she had adopted several years ago.

Her voice had no trace of an accent before, but this time, when she spoke, she sounded distinctly English. "Are you awake?"

The man's cerulean veined lids opened. Beneath, the pale blue eyes took only seconds to focus.

Acquiescing to a newly awakened alertness, he glanced around the room and then responded with an equally distinct Russian accent. "What is the date?"

Luna smiled. "May 6th."

Yassen Gregorovich's breath hitched – he had been in a coma for months!

Not seeming to notice him, the pale woman sent a cursory glance at his IV's. An airy flick of her wand later, the tubes crumpled to the ground.

Grateful, the Russian assassin shifted into a sitting position. The magic performed had not gone unnoticed, but other things were occupying his mind.

"Are you all right?" The question she posed was innocent enough, but the memories it revived were anything but.

_Alex...Cray...Cray had been killed, of course, and Alex...Alex had been with him when he had died._

No, not died, Yassen berated himself. Several people had died that fateful day on Air Force One—the majority at Yassen's hand—but he had not. However, if he had been forced to choose the manner of his own passing, he would've chosen the death upon Air Force One. After all, having his circulation stopped painlessly while in the arms of John Rider's son was not a terrible demise. Particularly for a man who shattered lives, a man with less contacts in the criminal underground than enemies.

"...Yassen?" the girl asked curiously.

Vivacious blue eyes slid up, meeting pearlescent silver ones.

Yassen saw that she was in the midst of perusing a medical file, set on a transparent glass table. The table itself caught his eye: a single slab of fiber optic glass smoothly formulated to have three sides and curved corners. A neon green light was visible from within the table, and it was moving up and down vertically as the room's occupants breathed and moved. It was a recording device, Yassen realized with a start. The British military, for those could be the only ones containing him, had clearly been progressing their own devices.

"Thank you. I am fine." To his own ears, he sounded raspy.

The woman didn't seem to share the sentiments.

"That's good." Luna smiled dreamily, her gaze drifting again. Her wooden stick began to perform a slow, elegant dance in the air. "You're important, you know."

Yassen arched an eyebrow. "And I suppose you're a clairvoyant witch?"

"Just a witch," Luna admitted with the smallest shrug of her left shoulder and a vacant smile. "But the wicoreggs say that you're very important. To be honest, since they're constant liars, I hadn't been truly expecting to find you when I came here. I was looking for the goolasims."

Wincing with effort, Yassen stood and faced her.

"I see," he said quietly. "And do these creatures say anything else about me that I should be aware of?"

"Nothing else but gibberish."

The two looked at each other in silence for a moment longer. "If you have no objections, I will be leaving now. I don't pretend to know how you knocked out the sentries, but I would prefer to leave before they wake up."

Luna gave a small bow, her eerily vacant smile still presiding over her features. "Where do you want to go?"

Another eyebrow was arched. "I think, for now, familiar territory would be best. Have you ever been to Moscow?"

. . .

As _they _watched _her, _Draco watched _them._

Each of Asian descent, they numbered four in total but boasted enough artwork amongst themselves to shame a mural. The artwork came in the form of muggle tattoos that snaked up their muscled arms, around their stocky necks, and presumably down their burly bodies. Undoubtedly, they belonged to some form of a gang.

On the other hand, Draco was convinced that _she, _with her distinct red hair, belonged to the Weasley clan. At first, he'd even mistaken her for Potter's wife, but upon catching a glimpse of her profile and a strain of her American accent, he'd recalculated his conclusions.

He wondered what a gang would want from a woman like her. Ordering her meal with a glazed look on her face, she appeared mundane in the mugglest of ways. Like him, she was probably just on her lunch break, taking advantage of this café's good food and service. In fact, such quality was the only reason that Draco overlooked the muggle owners. He was actually quite a regular here, and because he'd never seen either her or them, he found himself staring—staring and wondering.

_It's rude to stare,_ Mother had always said.

Sighing, Draco turned away. Two bites into his sandwich, however, a small cough caused him to look back up again. The pale face of a woman stared back at him, and from this distance, the dark shadows beneath her eyes were distressingly visible. Juxtaposed against the lighting fixture, her unkempt hair seemed transformed into a ginger-gold halo.

"Um, hi." It was _her, _the one that Draco had dubbed an 'estranged Weasley'.

"May I help you?"

"D'you—" Discomfited, she cleared her throat and then gestured at the empty seat across from Draco. "D'you mind if I sit there? I know it's a strange question, but it's just that, well, there are these men who won't stop _looking _at me, and..."

Draco blinked, sliding his gaze to one side. The gang was seated a few tables away, sending near constant glances in her direction.

Slightly worried and unsure of _why, _he returned his attention to her. "Sit."

Unaffected by his laconic response, she set down her plate and dropped gratefully into the patterned cushion. Immediately, she began to wolf down her salad. He couldn't stop himself from watching, and after a few moments, she seemed to notice.

Glancing up, she slowed her chewing and reached for a napkin. "Um. Sorry. Maybe I should introduce myself? I'm Jack."

Draco's first reaction was to say that 'Jack' was an interesting name for a girl, but he suppressed the comment. "I'm Draco."

When he reciprocated, she relaxed visibly. A smile lit her face, and suddenly, she looked years younger.

"Draco's an interesting name—"

The man experienced a distinct feeling of déjà vu.

"—What does it mean?"

"Dragon," he replied, watching as she picked up her fork once more. This time, she ate with less haste.

"Cool. I've never met anyone with that name before, and I've met quite a lot of unique people."

"I see." Of all the non-responses that existed, like 'ah' or 'interesting', Draco was rather partial to 'I see', even when he didn't actually 'see'.

"Like this one person I met in college – when I still went to college, that is – he could play three harmonicas at one time while doing the jive. Of course, that talent probably wouldn't get him anywhere, but it was really fun to watch after drinking one too many martinis."

"I...see."

She seemed to sense his bewilderment and changed topics abruptly. "So how about you, Draco? You're still young—"

"I'm twenty-one."

"—Do you go to college?"

Deciding that vagueness was for the best, he answered, "I work for the government."

She stiffened, paling immediately.

An interesting reaction, Draco noted and decided to put her at ease. "Just secretarial duties, though. It's not what I desire, but it's the best job I can get, under the circumstances."

To her credit, she noticed that his tone boded no further comments and didn't ask him to elaborate. For a woman who obviously never had etiquette training, she was surprisingly perceptive. He decided that she was a walking or, rather, talking contradiction.

"And you?" he said politely. "What do you do?"

"I'm a housekeeper-turned-guardian, but my 'real job' is at a small law firm."

Draco bit back the 'I see' that threatened to emerge. Although he wasn't illiterate in non-magical matters, it was still difficult to converse with muggles. Jack was actually one of the first that he'd ever spoken to, willingly.

"Which do you prefer?" he inquired.

"To be honest? Neither. I love my ward, Alex. I really do, but he – he –" She turned her gaze down, inhaling a shuddering breath.

Suddenly, Draco thought that he knew why, despite her young years, Jack looked so old, mentally.

"You don't have to say any more," he offered.

"Thank you." She picked at her food, her appetite severely diminished. "Families are often difficult to talk about, y'know?"

Images of his parents welled in Draco's mind. Dropping his eyes to the table, he took a deep breath, just as Jack had done earlier.

"Yes."

They ate in silence for a while, before Jack finished and paid her bill. Idly, Draco wondered if he'd ever see her again, but decided that the chances were unlikely. He didn't even know her last name.

Then a flurry of movement distracted him, and a frown crossed over his face. The four Asians were hurrying out of the café, and Draco remembered that Jack had joined him to find haven away from _them._ They had to be after her. But why?

Apprehensive, he quickly paid for his food and tossed on his jacket. A moment later, he was out the door and following the thugs. At first, they did nothing except trailing Jack through the bustling streets. Much to Draco's irritation, she remained unaware, and from the way she sprinted across traffic with only a haphazard glance, he decided that she didn't value self-preservation enough. She would probably have made for a good Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.

When she rounded a corner, he hoped that she'd disappear. However, the thugs were quick to follow, and her choice of destination only caused more anxiety for Draco. It was a small, empty street, away from prying eyes. Anything could happen here.

Almost as if to prove Draco's assumptions correct, the thugs made their move. Putting on speed, they surged around her before dragging her into a nearby alleyway.

Draco swore and then swerved after them.

"Hey, what do you want?" Jack was protesting, except the tremble in her voice evidenced that she knew what they wanted.

They knew that she knew.

"Money and revenge," said one man, the burliest of the four. "Alex Rider has brought humiliation to the Snakehead and countless others. Do you know how much we could make from capturing his guardian?"

Those words would forever embed themselves in Draco's memory, as would his subsequent actions.

Somehow, the awkward, spirited woman had wrenched sympathy from him—an emotion that he rarely allowed himself to feel—and he couldn't let her come to harm. Thus, he did the first thing that occurred to him. He pulled out his wand and began to shout stunners.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

Upon witnessing their partners crumbling, the remaining thugs whipped around, gaping at Draco. Draco took the opportunity to attack them.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

Two thuds accompanied their collapse.

Jack, who had seen the entire exchange, ran a shaky hand through her hair.

"_Oh," _she whispered, except it wasn't the 'I see' type of 'oh'. It was the 'I think I'm about to faint' type of 'oh'.

Seconds later, her eyelashes fluttered close and she began to sink onto the ground. Draco broke her fall with a hasty spell, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

. . .

My coauthor, Talionyzero, is out of the country. This time around, she wrote the first scene, and I wrote the second. I'd also like to apologize for the massive wait. With busy and conflicting schedules, it's kind of hard to write a story together... Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed.

Cheers!

prone2dementia

P.S. Review? ;D


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